The Mysteries of Portchester
by brynnjour
Summary: A Very Northanger Honeymoon. [One-Shot]


Hallo, darling readers!

The following is a one-shot piece I wrote for a Playground Challenge at AHA (the best JAFF site capital e ever exclamation point).

In it, we join Mr. and Mrs. Tilney on their Honeymoon voyage.

It's a bit gothic, a bit romantic, and a whole lot of senseless drivel.

I hope you enjoy it half as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Thank you for reading!

xo brynn

* * *

 **The Mysteries of Portchester**

A Northanger Abbey Variation

presented in three parts

by

Brynn Ashley

* * *

 ** _"_ _La commedia non è finita."_**

* * *

 **Part I**

* * *

 _31 October, 1799_  
 _Outside Portsmouth_

"Mrs. Tilney, you must put away that book."

The young lady seated across from him looked up, meeting his gaze as a mixture of felicity and agitation crossed her features. He had seen this look often enough in the just over a twelvemonth of their acquaintance, though he seemed to encounter it more in the nine days since their marriage than he had previously thought possible.

He had loved it at once, this impertinent streak of hers, and familiarity had not dulled the feeling.

"And whyever should I do that, Mr. Tilney?"

Leaning across the carriage, he tipped the binding upwards in an effort to read the title. _The Mysteries of Udolpho._

"Firstly, you have read it before. And secondly, which perhaps I should have mentioned first – with a mind so sharp as yours, Mrs. Tilney, I wonder that you seem to have forgotten the vows you made to me less than a fortnight ago. Did you not promise to always obey me?"

"I do not believe my father said anything so grave as 'always', Mr. Tilney. And besides, everyone knows the reading of the vows owes more to sentiment than literal rule. Would you have me be 'as a fruitful vine', forever 'growing on the walls of your house' as the vows further declare? For if I should, we should never make it to Portsmouth. I believe vines are rarely so inclined to travel."

Her husband bit back a smile.

"You are suddenly very well informed on the Book of Common Prayer."

She sighed.

"My father is a clergyman, Henry," she quipped, raising her chin. "As is my husband. And I am very well informed on a great number of things."

"Of course, my dear," he nodded. "But if you do not put away your book this moment, you will miss perhaps your only chance to be informed of Portchester Castle..." He leaned towards her and continued in a low voice, "and the fearsome ghouls which are rumoured to roam the halls there."

The book clasped shut with a _snap_.

"Ghosts, Henry! Truly?" Her eyes wide with surprise, she narrowed her gaze and turned to peer out the window.

"Yes," he urged in a gravelly tone which he hoped was sufficiently ominous. "Though it was once occupied by all manner of medieval kings, the only residents of Portchester Castle now are long dead. Spectres, phantoms, and demons from another realm."

"Surely not demons!" she cried with delight. Her eyes were fixed on the window as she attempted to discern the faint outline of a castle through the dark line of trees he had indicated with a tapping of his finger… She squinted, unwilling to miss any indication of the fearsome otherworldly beings who must inhabit the haunted woods before them.

"Yes, Catherine," he bit his lip before continuing. She was entirely too predictable. "For it is said that a dark monk wanders the castle grounds, just as the sun sets on the horizon. Many lifetimes ago, this monk was tortured and killed by villagers when the Catholics fell out with the crown. And now, he watches all who pass through these woods... looking for his murderers."

She trembled. He continued.

"Some say he rides on horseback – atop a fearsome beast which stands higher than any living horse and breathes smoke from his nostrils. Then, the monk appears from the shadows, wrapped in a black robe which covers his face."

"How do they know he is a spirit? If the cloak covers his face?"

"Because, my dear, he will fade away into the mists when he is seen."

"But why?"

"No one knows. But legend has it that if you should see the Black Monk... on the night of the full moon... and if he should reveal his face to you…"

He waited, taking in the sight of her – her eyes wide with anticipation, face nearly pressed against the window, fingertips tracing the lines of the glass – entirely bewitched.

He could not stop the corners of his mouth from turning, ever so slightly, upward.

"But tonight is a full moon!" she gasped. "Henry! What should happen if you see his face?!"

She turned to face him, flushed with equal measures of fear and elation.

He leaned slowly toward her, cautiously peering over each shoulder – as though some invisible eavesdropper might overhear them. She leaned closer, their knees touching as he gently took her hands in his.

"Catherine, I suppose… I suppose he... he..."

"Yes?"

It was too easy.

"He invites you to dinner."

"Henry!"

With that, he burst into a roar of laughter. She responded by tossing a pillow at him with an agitated huff.

He only continued to laugh, and soon enough – she joined him.

"That was quite horrible of you!"

"I am sorry, my dearest. But if you could have only seen the look on your – oh!"

"Oh!"

They clasped hands as they cried out in surprise. The carriage shifted beneath them as a loud _crack!_ sounded in their ears.

"Henry!" she cried as the carriage came to a stop. "What has happened?"

He climbed from the carriage where he spoke in hushed tones with the driver. It was the work of a moment to determine they would travel no more that evening.

Their voices too low to hear, Catherine could only stare out the window. She watched as the sun sank beneath the trees.

So transfixed was she that she did not notice her husband's return to the carriage.

"Ambrose will ride back to the nearest village and procure transportation and lodgings for us. We cannot travel on this wheel and we certainly will not stay here tonight."

"Certainly," she echoed in a whisper, her eyes narrowing towards the horizon. "Henry, where is Ambrose now?"

"He has ridden off in the direction of the town."

Her eyes gaped wide with this information and she leapt across the seat to embrace him. He steadied himself under her weight, glancing up at her with a look of pure confusion. She did not remove her eyes from the tree line. Finally, he turned to see what had her so enthralled.

The darkened figure of a man, dressed in a long, black cloak, rode slowly towards them. His seat was at least as high as the carriage. And, in the chilled air of dusk, his steed seemed to exhale thick plumes of smoke. He moved closer, pulling the cloak back to reveal his face…

The next sound either of them heard was a woman, screaming.

* * *

 **Part II**

* * *

"Again, Count Banpiro, I must tell you how grateful we are for your assistance this evening."

"Banpiro, if you please," the man replied with a smile.

"And, again, Lord Banpiro, sir," the young lady stammered. "I am so sorry to have… reacted so horribly, when you came to help us."

She wrung her handkerchief in her hands, as though she thought the words she needed to explain might be found within.

"My husband…" she smiled, "my husband has told me I have quite the active imagination."

Henry readily agreed.

Banpiro only laughed and passed the potatoes.

"I am only happy to have such entertaining company for dinner," the gentleman finally replied.

Henry Tilney smiled. He quite liked the count. He had come to their aid just as the skies had opened up above them. Strange, for it had not looked like rain – nor fog, nor hail, but there you had it. He had ordered his servants, which had appeared quite suddenly from, well, somewhere in the tree line, to whisk the Tilneys through the wood and to the gates of his castle. A very imposing structure it was, too. Henry assumed it could be called _gothic_ but he would hardly say any such thing in the presence of his wife.

"Please, Mrs. Tilney," Count Banpiro drawled in his heavy accent, something Henry thought between French and… perhaps Spanish? "Would you tell me more of this _Udolpho_?"

"Yes, of course," Catherine offered brightly. "So, after the aunt is married to Montoni, he decides that Emily must marry his friend, Count Morano. But the count is evil, you see–"

Here, Count Banpiro interrupted. "Aren't we all?"

The Tilneys laughed.

Catherine finished her story.

Later, as they snuggled together in their bed, they discussed the count, the strange events of the evening, and the odd turn of their honey-moon.

"He's quite mysterious, don't you think?" Catherine whispered to her husband. "Almost like a real, malevolent count from _The Mysteries of Udolpho_."

"I think you've had quite enough of that book, Catherine," Henry scolded. "And there's nothing the least bit malevolent, as you say, about Count Banpiro."

"Well you must admit to his being mysterious, at least!" she cried. "All alone in this eerie old castle? And his skin is really very pale, almost translucent. Why, it's almost as if he might glow in the dark! And don't you think it strange that he only ate meats at dinner? I watched him, you know. Not a single bite of pudding, or potatoes, or anything else passed his lips! It was really quite irregular. He had nothing save a large piece of meat and several glasses of that dark red wine."

"You are ascribing mystical properties to his choice of wine now?"

"Do be serious, Henry. You must have noticed how thick it was. How it clung to the glass. Almost like…"

Suddenly, an unknown mass leapt from beneath the counterpane, grabbing her about the waist. She shrieked as a pair of cool hands assailed her midsection.

"Stop, Henry!"

"Admit it, Catherine," he muttered into the softness of her neck. "You remain as curious, imaginative, wrapped up in romantic notions, and convinced of the impossible as ever."

"And yet you have married me."

"Yes," he sighed against her, dropping light kisses along the line of her nightdress. "It seems I am a bit of the romantic, too."

"Mr. Tinley!" she laughed with delight. "How you surprise me!"

* * *

 **Part III**

* * *

They did not see Count Banpiro the next morning.

This, Catherine pointed out, was likely due to the fact that the count could not emerge from the mystical ethers in broad daylight. Henry, however, preferred to believe the note which had been left with a servant for them. Count Banpiro had been regrettably called away on business, though he was glad to have made the acquaintance of two such curious, imaginative, and romantic persons.

"An odd choice of words, is it not?" she teased as they climbed the steps of their newly fitted carriage. "That he should call us curious, imaginative, and romantic?"

"What do you mean, Catherine?" he asked absentmindedly, his thoughts already turning towards the road. "Surely you are not offended. And by the mysterious count of all persons?! Why, who would believe it."

"Well, only that last night, you said–"

Mrs. Tilney's rather astute observation was interrupted by a loud _shriek!_ – which, to Henry's surprise, did not come from his wife.

"The count?!" gasped Ambrose. "You say you have seen the count? The * _banpiro_?"

"Why, yes," Henry replied evenly. "We spent the evening here with him, as you can see for yourself. His castle is–"

Henry turned his gaze back to the immense gothic stronghold behind him, a hand raised in direction. Surely Ambrose could see the –

This time, the scream Henry heard was his own. For there, nestled amongst the trees, where the mighty castle of Count Banpino had stood, only moments ago, was… was…

"The ruins of Portchester Castle, sir." Ambrose offered. "There are... there are stories here. Legends."

Henry stared, stunned, into the distance. And for a moment he saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing – except perhaps the count's cool stare, his voice, the thick sweetness of his wine. The wine!

 _Oh, why had he drunk the wine?!_

With a start, he realized someone was calling his name.

"Henry!" Catherine's voice seemed an echo, her voice a mixture of rapture and satisfaction. Slowly, the sound became clearer.

Much clearer.

"Did you hear that, Henry? Isn't it incredible! We have seen the ghost of Count Banpiro! Oh, I just _knew_ he could not be some normal count! His eyes, Henry! Why, they were as cold as ice, but as warm as honey. There was something entirely... _otherworldly_ in his manner. Wouldn't you say? Henry? Henry?!"

Henry was suddenly struck by a dreadful, sinking, ominous feeling he had never known before this moment.

 _He was never going to hear the end of this._

* * *

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